


This Might Help

by Hatteress (goddammitstacey)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Pre-Slash, Season 3A rewrite, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammitstacey/pseuds/Hatteress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cora gets a back story, Jennifer's motivations make sense and Erica's death is more than it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Might Help

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming and, knowing me, will be a longer time in finishing. JOIN ME ON THIS WIP RIDE MY MASOCHISTIC FRIENDS! 
> 
> This has been sitting in my draft folders for so long I've actually forgotten who I got to read over it initially. Knowing me, it was probably [Mel](http://hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com/) or [Otter](http://agentotter.tumblr.com/). Those enablers.
> 
> No sterek in this story, friends, but I do have plans to sequel later seasons in which Stiles and Derek smoosh faces. For reasons.

Isaac's been through a lot of shit since he became a werewolf. Then again, he'd been through a lot of shit before the bite too; everything in perspective. Still, having his heart kick-started with jumper cables is probably the least fun thing on his timeline.

"Stay with me," the woman hisses. Isaac would ask her where the hell he's likely to go, given she's literally dragging him across the pavement, but his mouth isn't cooperating. Just like his legs. And his blood. Blood that's trickling out of him at a steady rate and leaving dark pools of slick in his wake.

Jesus...

The woman—who is she even?—jolts him and Isaac whimpers as pain blossoms hot and fresh down his spine. "My neck," he slurs, oh god, it _hurts_.

"From their claws," the woman says. "It's how they share memories."

Of course it is. _Werewolves_. "But... I don't remember anything." Shit, he doesn't... He'd been doing something. Searching for something, but it won't come. It's been days—how he even knows that is beyond him—but he can't piece them together. Everything's a blank. A huge, gaping, terrifying blank.

The woman huffs, dragging him into a seat on something that rocks slightly. "Also how they steal them."

Weight shifts and Isaac scrabbles sluggishly over the leather of the woman's jacket until she pulls on his hands, clamps them around her waist. She smells like smoke and nail polish and god, Isaac really hopes he's not gonna throw up on his rescuer here because that would be seven shades of embarrassing.

"Hold onto me," the woman says. "No matter what happens, don't let go, you got it?"

Isaac nods; not much else he can do. The blood is coming faster now, making his head spin.

Ideal time to be on a motorcycle, really.

* * *

When Lydia was thirteen, her parents had taken her out to dinner at _Mariachi's_ , Beacon Hills' only five star restaurant. It was rich, shiny and had made Lydia feel like she was living in a nineteen forties socialite tv series. They'd made it through three courses before her parents had exchanged a glance, placed their cutlery delicately on their plates and told her they were getting a divorce. Lydia had made them pay for five different deserts and hadn't eaten any of them.

Mariachi's has since become the go-to for when Lydia's parents feel they need to have a difficult discussion. It's also the most sure fire way to make Lydia shut down faster than a _Louis Vuitton_ sale.

Her mother sighs. Again. "You barely said anything at dinner, darling."

Actually Lydia hadn't said anything at dinner. Details. "It was good to get out of the house," she lies. She's been getting better at that over the Summer. Ever since her boyfriend returned from the dead and traded in his scales for fur.

"I just-" her mother stops, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel. "This year has been rough on us all-" Having a crazy daughter is _hard_ , "-and I know that Jackson leaving-"

"Do _not-_ " Lydia snaps, before she can help it. _Breathe_. "-say his name."

Her mother's hands jump a little and Lydia wants to cringe, sigh, _anything_... Instead she purses her lips and stares determinedly out at the dark street ahead. "I'll get over Jackson," she says. Because she will. She _will_. "He's not the first person to leave." _And he won't be the last._

The silence that follows is a familiar one, always hot on the heels of her proving that she's learned another lesson in how awfully the world can screw you over. Lydia doesn't look over as he mother sighs, which is probably why she's the only one to see the bike as it careens out of the alley and into their path.

* * *

Bud is getting too old for this shit. "Gee," he says, holding the paper up. "I sure am glad you drew me a picture."

The kid—and he is a kid, no matter what the hell his fake ID says—just grins at him, like he'd been behind the door when the ability to understand sarcasm had been handed out. Or more likely, he's just developed an ungodly tolerance to it, given his companion.

"Hey Scott," the second kid says, grin putting the grinch to shame. "Whaddya think?"

He's holding up an art book, the one full of mythical creature designs if Bud's not mistaken. He's probably found the anatomically correct unicorns. Teenagers _always_ find the bloody unicorns.

The kid getting inked—Scott, Bud reminds himself for the third time—shoots his friend a look and Bud can see why they're close. Kids like Plaid Boy need someone with a steel plated moral compass around, just like kids like Scott need someone to get them into trouble every now and then.

Kid Plaid grins and closes the book. "Too soon?"

Bud concentrates on setting up his equipment, double checking the gun. The last thing he needs is an underage kid's arm falling off with his ink on it.

"Are you really sure about this, man?" Kid Plaid is saying. "These things are kinda permanent."

Bud rolls his eyes.

"I'm not changing my mind," Scott says, sounding every inch his sixteen or whatever years.

"Why the two bands though," Kid Plaid says, and Bud has to admit he's curious about that himself.

The underage kids that come through looking to get inked are usually after something a little flashier than two uneven black bands around their bicep.

Kid Plaid gestures expansively at Scott's arm and Bud kinda wants to tell him to never go under the needle. "Don't you think your first tattoo should mean something?"

"Getting a tattoo means something," Scott says, and huh. Bud's met forty year old bikers that approach tattooing with less maturity.

Kid Plaid huffs. "I don't think that's-"

"Naw, he's right," Bud says, inking up the needle. "Tattoos're just ink. It's the meaning behind 'em that matters."

"See," Scott says, grinning. "He gets it."

"Scott, he's literally covered in tattoos. _Literally_."

"And they all have meaning," Bud says, swabbing over Scott's arm.

"Oh yeah?" Kid Plaid says, and here we go. "How about that one?" He's pointing and Bud wants to grin. They always go for the mermaid. "What's the meaning behind that one?"

"It's a reminder of the first time I drowned a man," Bud lies.

Kid Plaid stops and gapes a little, like he's trying to figure out if Bud's making shit up. Finally he glances pleadingly at Scott who's...grinning. Okay yeah, Bud likes this kid.

"You ready?" He says. Scott nods, bracing like all first timers do. "You ain't got any problems with needles, do you?"

Scott shakes his head. "Nope."

Kid Plaid cranes his neck to watch as Bud puts needle to skin. "I tend to get a little squeamish though, so..."

Kid Plaid drops like a sack of potatoes. This is the best job Bud's had in weeks.

* * *

Allison cops a face full of bacterial smelling air when she pushes through the doors and wants to gag. Hospitals haven't been a good place for her for a while now.

The lady at reception looks up at her with dull, tired eyes.

"Hi, um, I'm looking for the Martins?" Allison says. "They came in about fifteen minutes ago-"

"Allison!" Allison spins so hard she's surprised she doesn't fall over. Then Lydia's there, yanking her off into a corner and she almost does anyway.

"Oh my god," Allison says, tugging Lydia around so she can look her over. "Are you okay? Your mom-"

Lydia waves her off. "We're fine."

Fine. _Fine_. Allison nods, gulping in a breath and Lydia pays far too much attention to everything because she takes one look at Allison's face and pulls her into a fierce hug. "I'm _fine_ ," she says again and Allison really can't help the way she buries her face in Lydia's hair and breathes in the perfume she bought her for her birthday. "I promise," Lydia says. "The stupid bike took most of the damage."

Allison nods, pulling back to take a breath. She can do this. "Bike? On the phone you said-" it's habit to glance around, lean in a little closer, "-werewolf business."

Lydia's lips thin. "Isaac Lahey was on the bike."

Oh crap, that means...

"Yeah," Lydia says, like she's reading minds now. "He's here. He was unconscious when they brought him in and I don't know when he's gonna start magically healing or whatever but I don't think this hospital's gonna buy another miracle case." Lydia stops, and Allison—damn it—Allison knows what's coming. "We need to call Scott."

It's automatic at this point to shake her head. She's been shaking her head whenever the subject of Scott came up all summer. "I don't-"

"It's him or Derek," Lydia says, lips pursing.

It's like a slap in the face. Allison bites down on a snarl, feeling her jaw tick under the pressure of it.

"No," she grits, and Lydia tips her head like Allison... Crap. Allison needs to get over herself. "I'll call Scott," she says, pulling out her phone.

* * *

The road back into town is dark, straight and deserted which means Stiles has absolutely nothing to distract him from Scott's shuffling in the passenger seat.

"Oh my god, what is it already?"

Scott grimaces and it's actually pretty worrying given the number of things that can hurt Scott since he went furry can fit on the back of Stiles' hand.

"I don't know," Scott says, shuffling his arm again. The one with the bandage on it because Stiles is best friends with a crazy person who gets tattooed at sixteen. "It's really itchy."

"You probably have hepatitis," Stiles says, shifting his grip on the wheel. "I told you that place looked like a crack den."

Scott rolls his eyes. It's entirely without effect because he's also shuffling around in Stiles' passenger seat like he has worms. "It did not- _ah_!"

"Okay, I'm pulling over," Stiles says, not even bothering to indicate because the road's deserted anyway. No sooner are they stationary, Scott's shouting again, clawing at the bandage. "What's going on?" Stiles says. "Tell me your arm isn't falling off."

"It's not-" Scott's tearing at the bandages now, shredding them with nails that are more claw. "It's _burning_."

Oh good, that sounds _wonderful_. The last of the bandage is yanked off just in time for- _whoa_.

"No. No, no, no, _no_..."

"Dude," Stiles says, watching the last of the ink recede into Scott's skin. "You _healed_."

"Agh," Scott growls, hitting the dash, which, _hey_. "This isn't fair!"

Stiles shrugs, grinning. "Maybe this is the universe telling you you don't need a tattoo."

Silence. Oh man. Stiles looks over to find Scott glaring down at his arm like it's kicked his puppy.

Stiles sighs. "Why did you really get the tattoo, Scott?"

Scott does The Face. The same one he's been wearing most of the Summer. The one that makes Stiles want to try and get him drunk and fill him with chocolate chip pancakes.

"Allison," Scott says, and _ding ding ding_. "I just- it's been really hard. But I didn't- I didn't call her and I-"

"You wanted to reward yourself with tetanus?" Stiles says, gently. It works, Scott's lips quirk up as he shrugs. "C'mon dude," Stiles says. "We're going to Rosie's and ordering every milkshake on the menu, my-"

Scott's phone goes off. It's sudden, loud and totally Allison's ringtone; the fact Stiles recognises it speaks far too much about his life. Scott pulls his phone out and holds it out in front of him like it's going to blow up which Stiles will laugh about sometime much later when Scott doesn't look like he's about to have a heart attack.

"WhatdoIdo?!" Scott yelps.

"Oh my god," Stiles says, snatching the phone and flipping it open. "Scott McCall's answering service, how may I direct your call?"

"Stiles?" Allison says, voice tinny through the receiver. Scott seriously needs to upgrade.

"Hey Allison," Stiles says, shooting Scott a look. Scott who looks like he's about to crawl into Stiles' lap to cuddle the damn handset. "Long time!"

"Uh- yeah. Yes. I-" she takes an audible breath and Stiles kinda feels sorry for her, even if he has been putting up with post-breakup Scott all summer. "Look, can you and Scott get to the hospital? Something's happened."

Stiles almost loses his hand along with the phone with how fast Scott yanks it out of his grip. "Are you okay?!"

Stiles shakes his hand out silently, glaring at Scott but also noticing the way he relaxes. Allison's obviously not hurt. "And Lydia?"

Whoa, _what?_ "Lydia?!" Stiles says, yanking the phone back. He only half succeeds, resulting in him and Scott jammed uncomfortably over the stick shift, ears pressed either side of the receiver.

"We're both fine," Allison says on the other end. "I'm not calling about us."

Stiles' whole body sags rapidly enough he almost impales himself on the gear shift.

"I'm calling because Isaac's hurt," Allison continues. "Scott, they have him in ICU."

Stiles leans back just enough to exchange a look with Scott, because oh _man_.

"We'll be there in twenty," Scott says. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will," Allison says before she hangs up.

Stiles leans back and tries to breathe. Hospital calls are hell on the blood pressure.

"Think you can make it in twenty minutes?" Scott says.

Stiles revs the engine. "Watch me."

He shifts into first just in time for his hood to smash-buckle under a mass of kicking, terrified deer.

* * *

Allison's a pacer. It would drive Lydia up the wall if it weren't for the fact Jackson had been too and- _no_. Lydia cuts off that line of thought cleanly and viciously.

"They're late," Allison says. Again. Lydia resists the urge to slap Allison's fingers out of her mouth because agh, _nail-biting_.

"They said they were coming," Lydia says. "They'll come."

Allison whirls around, floral skirt flaring nicely around her legs. Lydia makes a mental note to ask her where she got it. "But what if-" Allison cuts herself off and Lydia realises why when a hand lands on her own shoulder.

"Lydia," her mother says. "The police have finished with us, we've been cleared to go home."

Lydia turns, glancing down the hall to where Deputy Graham is holding an official looking conversation with Stiles' dad. "Right," she says, pulling her mother into a perfunctory hug. "You go on, mom, I'll get a lift with Allison."

Her mother's gaze ticks to Allison and back and Lydia can feel her spine tightening even before her mother opens her mouth. "I would like it if you came home with me."

Lydia feels like she should be ordering something expensive. "I know you would," Lydia says. "But I-"

"Lydia." It isn't loud. Her mother never is, unless she's screaming at her father. "Please get your bag and come with me now. I don't want a repeat of-"

_No_. "Of what," Lydia hisses, crowding forward before she thinks to stop herself. Her mother doesn't back down, but then Lydia had to get it from somewhere. "You don't want a repeat of last year? When your daughter went clinically insane and it took her punching a mirror bloody for you to notice?"

They're not new words. Not by a long shot, but it's the first time Lydia's said them out loud. Her mother looks like she's been slapped, a hurt beginning to blossom that Lydia can't- she can't. "You don't get to care now," Lydia says. "It's too late. Go home."

Lydia is her mother's daughter. Because for a full second, Loraine Martin looks like she's going to fall apart. But it's only for a second. Lydia watches her mother suck in a breath, say, "be home by midnight" and turn away. Lydia doesn't sway. Doesn't move. She feels like she's floating. Burning up, losing grip and _no_. Fingernails bite into her palms.

"Lydia," Allison says. Like she's been saying it for a while. Lydia lets herself be turned by a gentle hands. Lets Allison look her over with the sort of concern her parents forgot to afford her years ago. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Lydia says. "Don't hug me."

Allison squeezes her shoulder and lets go. Because Allison is amazing.

* * *

"Hi, Mrs Marti-_whoa_!"

Stiles flails so hard out of Lydia's mom's way he almost tips backwards over a line of waiting room chairs. Scott catches him before he can; growing up with Stiles has made him a pro at keeping Stiles upright.

"Just for once, can something not run us over tonight?" Stiles says, watching after Lydia's mom's retreating back.

Scott yanks Stiles' collar straight and scans the waiting room. "The deer was just scared."

Stiles huffs. "Yeah, and now my jeep _just_ needs a new windshield."

Probably a new hood as well. The thing had barely limped its way to the hospital and _crap,_ why is this place always so _crowded_? Scott gives up pretence and sniffs at the air.

"By the way," Stiles says, hovering at his shoulder like the Robin to Scott's batman. Something Scott will never say out loud, ever; Stiles would never forgive him. "Saying the crazy deer was scared is not reassuring. Remember the _last time_ woodland creatures were scared?"

Scott can almost hear the hooves in his head. Hooves and a howl and god, he seriously doesn't need this again. "Yeah," he says, feeling the weight of it. "I do."

"I'm really starting to hate this town," Stiles says.

Scott can't help but agree with the sentiment. Things are… things are spiralling. Scott honestly doesn't know how they're going to be able to keep this up. Between Alphas and Kanimas and hunters he- ah, _there_. Scott cocks his head, catches the familiar scent on his tongue. "This way."

* * *

"Jeeze, it's about time," Lydia says. Allison turns and- crap. She'd been in Paris. _Paris_. She's had so much space and time and recovery and none of it means a damn thing because just seeing Scott navigating the crowd toward her is enough to make her heart pound and her stomach clench. It's like she'd never left.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks, eyes earnest and concerned. Always so concerned. It should make Allison rage and throw things—god knows her dad's worried questions had over the break—but Scott just… He's _Scott_.

"Um, _hello_ ," Lydia says. "Girl who was _actually_ in the car crash over here."

Scott blinks, recoils and it's so ridiculous Allison wants to hug him. "I- sorry, are you-"

"Oh save it," Lydia says.

Stiles coughs. "Yep, she's fine."

Allison has to smother a grin as Lydia levels a glare at him. Stiles waves. "Hey girls, nice summer?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Your fur brother is in room one eighteen," she says to Scott. "He's in isolation until he wakes up and the police can talk to him."

"My dad's here?" Stiles says, craning his neck up the hall. It won't do a lot of good, Allison saw the sheriff and the deputy heading for coffee ten minutes ago.

"You think he can help us get in to see Isaac?" Scott asks.

Stiles scoffs. "Not a chance."

"You could tell him you're dating him," Lydia offers.

Stiles' whole head jerks forward with how hard his mouth drops open.

Allison has to bite her lip as Scott frowns. "Would that work?"

Stiles' incredulous look swings to Scott. "No it wouldn't work," Stiles hisses. "I'd just end up having to defend my flexible sexuality. Again."

Scott frowns. "You have flexible sexu-"

"I could," Stiles snaps. "It's not outside the realm of possibility, right?"

Allison can honestly say, with no preamble that she has never once thought about Stiles' sexuality. "Um."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "What about your mom?" She says to Scott.

"Better!" Stiles crows, throwing his whole body into it. "Much better plan!"

"She should be on shift," Scott says, nodding. "I'll find her."

* * *

His kingdom for Melissa McCall.

"She's heavily sedated right now," the doctor says. John wants to bounce pen lids off the mans portly, bald head.

"I know that," John says, for the _fifth time_. "I'm telling you that I need to be informed when she's _not_ heavily sedated and therefore able to answer some questions."

Like, _what's your name? Why are you carrying fake identification? Why does your stolen motorcycle look like it's gone a round with a mountain lion?_

The doctor nods, harried and probably destined to be unhelpful. John can feel a migraine coming on.

* * *

The girl watches the sheriff, keeping her breathing regular – heartbeat ticking steadily as she works the needle out of her arm.

* * *

There are very few things that can make a ten hour night shift worse. Melissa's learning fast that werewolves are apparently one of those few.

"I just-" Melissa sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. "I thought we were staying out of werewolf business?"

"We are," Scott says, earnest in a way that makes Melissa want to simultaneously ruffle his hair and smack him upside the head.

"Really?" Melissa says, gesturing at the gaggle of teenagers currently craning over the reception desk in front of her. "Because this looks kinda like the opposite of that."

Scott's mouth does the pinching thing that makes him look like his father and Melissa kinda hates that life has upped the anti enough to put that look on his face. "Mom, when Isaac heals-"

"He's not the only one with a furry cover to be blown," Stiles says, communicating at least eighty percent with his eyebrows. "Ay? You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down here. Mrs M, 'cause-"

"Stiles." Dear lord, it's a good thing the clipboard in her hand is one of the flimsy wooden ones or she'd be hitting Stiles over the head with it. "Stop talking."

Stiles makes double guns with his fingers. "Gotcha."

How Melissa hasn't killed him yet is a miracle. "I can get you in," she says, watching Scott's face light up. "_But_. Only two of you. People are going to notice if I host a field trip through the hospital."

Scott's head is bobbing before she even finishes talking. "That's fine. Perfect, we'll just..."

Melissa sighs, logging herself out of her workstation as she watches Scott yank his little clique over to the side of the room to hold a hurried conversation. It's short, involves a lot of eye-rolling from Lydia, more than one indignant noise from Stiles and Melissa must be seriously sleep deprived because she's suddenly fighting down a surge of pride at watching her son mediate a group of kids trying to decide who gets to visit a healing werewolf.

Her life.

"Okay," Scott says, presenting himself and- Allison. Oh hell, this really is going to be exactly like last year isn't it?

Melissa pushes away from the desk. "Follow."

* * *

Allison's seen far too many people gaunt and pale against hospital bed sheets. She can't say she's used to those people being werewolves though.

"He's not healing," Allison says, watching as Scott's mom presses the gauze back over the gaping wound in Isaac's side. God, it's a good thing he's unconscious – Allison can't imagine dealing with the pain otherwise. "Scott, why isn't he healing?"

Scott's face is grim when she looks over at him, jaw set. "Alpha wounds," he says. "An Alpha did this."

Scott's mom frowns as she straightens. "Didn't you say the Alpha was-"

"Derek," Allison says. She can feel the way her jaw sets; can feel Scott's eyes on her as it does. It doesn't matter. God, she should have taken her _shot_. "The Alpha is Derek."

Isaac's heart monitor pings steadily, like an echo of Allison's pulse.

Mrs McCall sighs. "Well, he's in better shape than the girl brought in with him, I can-"

"Girl?" Scott says suddenly. "What girl?"

Crap. In all the commotion they hadn't-

Scott's mom motions for them to follow her, leaving Allison to cringe as she follows. "She was on the bike with Isaac," Allison says. "We didn't even think-"

"It's okay," Scott says. Like he always does.

Mrs McCall leads them out and down the hall. It's not quiet, the walls echoing with distant bustling, laboured breaths and sharp machine buzzes. Allison doesn't realise she's been holding her breath against the smell of sickness until Scott takes her hand. He's not looking at her, but then he doesn't have to. Allison breathes again.

Mrs McCall shoulders open a door three down from Isaac's room, only to gasp. "What-"

The bed is a tangle of skewed sheets. A needle, still bloody from where it'd been yanked out of an arm, lies telling in the centre of the empty bed.

"Damn it," Scott's mom says, circling around to the bank of dead monitors. Allison drifts closer to the bed as Scott questions his mom. "Could she have left on her own? Will she still be in the hospital?"

Allison's only half listening, because there's something- something on the bedside table, scratched small but obvious and if-

"I need to call this in," Scott's mom says, "Scott-"

"We'll go," Scott says, wrapping one hand around Allison's arm.

Allison lets herself be pulled away.

* * *

"Do we seriously think this was Derek?" Lydia says.

The group of them are holed up in an empty hospital room, and Lydia honestly doesn't know who she wants to slap more: Allison for her damn pacing or Stiles for the way he's jiggling his foot against the metal frame of the hospital bed.

"He has a history of violence," Allison says, voice hard. It's a voice Lydia's learned not to argue with, coming from Allison.

Apparently Stiles had skipped that lesson. "Yeah but-"

"It doesn't matter," Scott interrupts, probably the only thing that saves Stiles from a shanking if Lydia's reading Allison correctly. Scott shakes his head. "It's possible." He looks at Stiles. "We can't call him."

Stiles' mouth pinches as he folds his arms. "Then how the hell do you propose to heal the slashed up werewolf?" he says. "Positive thinking?"

"We need to get him to Deaton," Scott says.

Wait, _what?_

"Deaton the _vet_?" Lydia says. Deaton, Scott's boss, who Lydia trusts Prada to for checkups and- and everyone is looking way too uncomfortable. Perfect. Is there anyone in this freaking town who's normal? "_God_, remind me to get a referral for Prada."

Scott, because he's Scott, shoots her an apologetic look. Like he's the one responsible for her life becoming a creature feature. Like she hadn't been doomed to this from the moment she stepped out onto that damn football field.

"Okay, here's the plan."

* * *

The plan sucks.

"Do you have any idea how grounded I'm going to be if my dad catches me dressed like this?" Stiles groans, shoving his hoodie into the garbage bag Scott's mom had handed to them with a put-upon expression.

Allison looks over at him as she ties up her hair. "Tell him you're volunteering?"

"As a surgeon?" Stiles says, waving a hand down at himself. The self that's currently clothed in hospital scrubs. Because Scott _sucks_. "What am I, Doogie Howser?"

The frown that tips Allison's lips is all confusion, which, _no_.

"Seriously?" Stiles says, passing the bag over. "Neil Patrick Harris? No?" Allison shrugs and it's the worst thing that's happened to Stiles all day. And he's about to prance around among a hospital full of licensed practitioners dressed as a surgeon. "Okay," he says. "You're as bad as Scott. You know he hasn't seen Star Wars?"

A pox on his children, seriously.

Allison clears her throat awkwardly. "Uh...Neither have I?"

_Oh my god._ "Oh my god, you two really were meant for each other."

It's out before he can stop it, not that he doesn't try, clapping both hands over his mouth as he watches Allison's face falling in horrific slow motion.

"Oh crap," he hisses. "Oh crap ohcrapohcrap I'm sorry - I didn't-"

"It's fine. It's okay." It's blatantly not okay. Stiles feels like an ass. An ass with its foot in its mouth. Allison takes a breath, steeling herself against a world that includes giant morons like Stiles Stilinski. "Lets just do this yeah?"

* * *

People say that hell is a hospital waiting room, but given the experience Lydia's had in hospitals of late, she can say without preamble that the food is the actual hell. The waiting room is just purgatory.

Lydia sighs and flips the page of the magazine in front of her. It's six months out of date and a veritable how-to guide on what _not_ to wear. Not that Lydia's reading it all that closely. Not when she has to glance up at the receptionists desk every ten seconds. As plans go, it's not the worst one. Not that Lydia's particularly a fan of her role.

On cue, Mrs McCall appears around the corner, making her way to the front desk with nonchalant ease. The nod she sends Lydia's way is inconspicuous and exactly what Lydia's been watching for.

Good god, here we go.

Lydia sets the magazine aside, gets to her feet, takes a deep breath and starts screaming.

* * *

It's not difficult to slip into the room. Hospitals may be hectic, but even the most stoic of nurses are going to start trickling towards the sounds of hysteria in the waiting room. Stiles and Allison make it to Isaac's bedside unimpeded where Mrs McCall has already unhooked the drip and set up the bed for transport.

"Check the hall," Allison hisses, twisting the bed away from the wall.

Stiles flails over to the door and pokes his head out. There're a couple of random patients and doctors facing the opposite direction. Not perfect, but as good as they're gonna get.

Okay. Okay they can go this. "Clear," he says, turning back to help Allison tug the bed out into the hall.

Stiles would really like to say this is the craziest thing he's ever done, but given his track record since Scott got bitten, he knows it'd be a gigantic lie. Jesus Chris, his _life_.

They're at the end of the hall, Allison jabbing at the elevator panel when everything goes to shit.

"Hey there!"

Allison jerks, locking frantic eyes with Stiles before spinning her back on him, hiding her face. Which is something Stiles really ought to be doing too because his freaking DAD is hot-footing it up behind them and holy freaking shit, Stiles is going to be grounded until he's thirty.

The elevator doors slide open but it's too late, Stile is having a heart attack and maybe- The hygiene mask hits him full in the face, because apparently Allison's aim is scary-accurate even with her damn back turned. Stiles doesn't even think, just fumbles it over his head, grabs the clipboard hanging from Isaac's hospital bed in front of him and spins.

"Yes," he says, clearing his throat and trying to sound like Derek looks. "Can I help you?"

His dad strides up, looking harried even as he gives Stiles the shiftiest of all shifty looks. Stiles ticks the clipboard higher and swallows hard.

"Yes," his dad says. "Where are you taking this patient? I was told he wasn't scheduled for surgery until four."

Stiles makes a show of looking at the chart in his hands, pulling it up in front of his face. The mask is good and he'd made sure to tuck the surgery cap down low but it's not like his dad wouldn't recognise his own son's eyes. Superhero comics _lie_.

"We had a code blue in room six so the schedule's been shuffled," he says, flying on pure adrenalin. "We've been told to get him into pre-op ASAP."

Behind him, the elevator starts dinging a warning. Allison's obviously holding it.

His dad hesitates, tips his head like he's trying to gauge a missing puzzle piece and Stiles studiously checks that Isaac's IVF isn't twisted.

"Okay," his dad says finally. Stiles struggles not to sag visibly. "But I want to be notified the second he's out of surgery, you understand."

"Will do, Sheriff," Stiles says, stumbling backwards as Allison yanks Isaac's gurney into the elevator.

His dad watches them go, frown still in place until the elevator doors shut between them. Stiles sags against the bed frame, making the whole thing creak ominously.

"Oh my god," he says. "I think I'm having a heart attack."

Allison looks about as good as he feels, white as a sheet as she leans against the elevator rail. The floor display ticks down to the carpark over the doors.

"Holy crap," Allison says, "How did you even know how to say all that?"

Ah. _Yeah_. Stiles swallows, remembering long hours spent hunched in hard hospital chairs. "I ah… I watch a lot of ER," he says.

Allison grins and it takes a lot more than it should for him to grin back.

* * *

Lydia is at the doors when they open.

"How'd it go?" Allison says as they manoeuvre Isaac out into the car garage.

Lydia clicks her tongue. "You guys are so lucky I have a reputation as an unstable freak," she says. Stiles can't help but flinch at that. "They gave me a cookie and a glass of water."

Stiles jams his fingers in the gurney twice trying to shuffle it around into an alcove and swears. "Agh, where the hell is Scott?"

On cue, Stiles' jeep half-limps, half-skids around the corner like the worlds greatest big-damn-hero entrance. Stiles almost forgives Scott the burning rubber. Almost.

"This is why I drive," Stiles says, and shares a look of comradery with Allison of all people.

Scott bought a bike over the summer, some dirt-monstrosity that would make Stiles fear for Scott's neck if he didn't know he could just heal if he came off the thing. Scott's mom had freaked.

Scott's on the phone when he pulls up and leaps out to help them. "We're on our way to you now. No- yeah, he's unconscious. About ten minutes? I'll see you then."

Lydia whistles as she circles the hood. "Wow, Stiles, you weren't kidding."

Nope. The hood is buckled slightly, bumper crumpled all to hell where the deer had thrown itself into them. "You should have seen the deer," he says.

"It didn't…" Allison trails off, looking to Scott. Stiles almost wants to laugh because _hunter_.

"I had to kill it," Scott says. Stiles grimaces because yeah, that hadn't been pretty.

Allison swallows hard, stomping the breaks on Isaac's gurney. "C'mon."

It takes all four of them to shuffle Isaac and his IVF into the back seat without doing even more damage to him. In the end, Scott's left to jam himself in against the far door with Isaac half on his lap to keep him stable. Stiles jogs around the jeep, slamming all the doors shut before hoisting himself into the drivers seat.

Everyone pauses awkwardly, the boys in the car and the girls next to the empty hospital bed.

"Well," Stiles says, too loud even to his own ears. "This was fun."

Lydia nods. "Let's never do it again," she says.

Stiles points at her. "Totally."

"I'll ah-" Scott stops, managing to look bashful while hunched over a bleeding goddamn werewolf. Stiles doesn't even have to look to know the eyes he's making are aimed at Allison. Some things don't change. "I'll see you in school?"

Allison steps back, swallows and nods. "Yeah," she says, lips ticking up. Oh Jesus Christ, they're seriously having a moment right now.

Stiles shifts gears, exchanges a look with Lydia and stomps on the gas. The sooner this shit is over with, the sooner he can get his baby into the shop.

* * *

He should be used to it by now - the smell of blood and pain, but Scott doesn't ever think he's going to be. It's good though. It'd be worse if he did.

"Stiles-" Scott grunts, trying not to jostle Isaac too hard as he half falls out of the jeep. Isaac hasn't woken up. Not once. Scott's trying really hard not to think the worst of that.

Stiles swears as he circles the hood, sneakers skidding slightly on the gravel as the back door to the clinic opens.

"Oh thank god," Scott says. "Deaton-"

Scott looks up and freezes, because _not Deaton_. Derek. Derek who hasn't changed at all over the summer - still all scowl; smelling of distrust and anger.

"What are you-"

Deaton appears then, propping the door open as Derek presses forward into Scott's space to check over Isaac. Scott barely holds back a snarl.

"What is he doing here?" Scott says to Deaton. Derek's hands are gentle as he presses a palm over Isaac's neck - checking his pulse, probably reading his laboured heartbeat. They're not the actions of someone who made it that way, but then Scott doesn't like taking chances these days.

"I called him," Deaton says.

Scott looks at him in askance. "What part of ‘Alpha wounds’ did you not understand?"

"I didn't do this," Derek says, voice low. Scott can't hear a lie behind it, but then Derek's lied, bare-faced to him before.

Stiles clears his throat behind them. "No offence dude, but evidence suggests-"

"He didn't attack Isaac," Deaton interrupts. "Now please be quiet and get Isaac inside."

Derek ends up just hefting Isaac up, bridal style - still gentle but urgent. Scott feels like he's missing every third page of a grade-specific textbook. What the actual crap is going on?

It's been three months since Scott's been to the vets office, taking the summer off at his mom's request. _Taking some time_ , she'd called it. Scott feels like he's waking up to find someone else living his life. Because Deaton's cutting Isaac's hospital gown away from his wounds and Derek- Derek's moving around him. Assisting. Assisting like he's done this a million times before.

"Derek," Deaton says. "The mandrake."

Scott steps back, takes a breath and immediately regrets it because where the vet's always smelled of chemicals and animals, it's also had an undertone of _him_ there. _His_ territory. It's not there anymore. Even worse, it's been replaced.

Stiles bumps his shoulder, voice low as he says, "I think we missed a few episodes."

No freaking kidding.

"What the hell is going on?" Scott says, watching Derek hand off the mandrake to Deaton. "If you didn't do this, then who did?"

Derek growls and it's familiar enough Scott almost feels like he's back on even ground. "You don't-"

"Derek," Deaton snaps cooly. "Tell him."

Derek scowls, arguing to the last before…nodding. More than a few episodes, apparently.

Deaton nods to the waiting room. "Out there if you please, I have work to do." All three of them move to comply before Deaton stops them with, "Stiles, with me."

Stiles gapes but complies when Scott claps him on the shoulder. They've developed a lot of silent signals over the years. This one is all, _tell you later_. Stiles huffs but nods. Scott steels himself and follows Derek out into the waiting room.

God, even out here smells like Derek. Scott stomps on a growl as Derek leans up against the mountain ash divider. He doesn't waste time, which out of all the surprises today has brought, is the only good one.

"It's a rival pack," Derek says. "They came into town about three months ago. They have Boyd and Erica. Isaac, Peter and I have been tracking them."

_What?_

Scott splutters. "Why didn't you come to us?"

Derek's jaw tightens, scent kicking up into something hard and combative. "You're not pack," he says, arms flexing as he crosses them over his chest. "You made that very clear."

"That doesn't mean I don't-" Scott growls, frustrated. "I could have helped."

"You could have died." Derek says. And that's not why, Scott knows it isn't. Derek only wants Scott's help if it's on _his_ terms. _His_ pack. _His_ orders. Using people for _his_ ends. God, Scott's been back in Derek's company for ten freaking minutes and he already wants to punch him.

Derek sighs, like he can read Scott's intent and hell, he probably can. "This isn't a normal pack," Derek continues. "We don't-"

"Not normal how?" Scott says, because this is happening. New school year, new threat. Scott'll be damned if he's not ready for it.

Derek's jaw ticks, eyes assessing him. "They're Alphas."

Wait, _what?_

"What? All of them?" Scott frowns. "How does that even work?"

Derek shakes his head, like Scott's guess is as good as his. "Deaton knows their leader. He's been helping me-"

"No kidding," Scott says. It's bitter, he can't help that it is. This is _his_ territory. _His_ work and- god, he wishes Stiles was out here. Stiles would know what to say.

Derek frowns at him before sighing, unfolding his arms in a show of almost…understanding?

"They have Boyd and Erica," he says. Like that's an excuse. And—hell—Scott can't deny it's a good one. Scott remembers the tie he had to Peter. Remembers the connection. Pack is more than just loyalty. Losing Peter—even though Scott had hated him—it'd felt like losing a limb.

Scott takes a breath, setting his jaw. He hates this, hates that he has to do this but he can't just stand by. "How can we help?"

Derek watches him, assessing—always freaking assessing—before, "You've done enough," Derek says, turning to the door.

_What?_ "But-"

"Go home, Scott."

* * *

The Girl rolls her shoulder as the last of the wounds knit back together. God, holding open wounds is a bitch; makes them ache like fuck for days after they've healed. The bank is cold and shuttered around her, dust kicking up little spirals in her wake. She'd hate it if it didn't feel so much like _hers_.

She descends the ornate staircase of the bank and the shadows shift, red eyes peering out at her from the darkness. The tapping is familiar but not calming. It'll never be that.

Deucalion steps out into a sliver of light, chiseled features thrown into sharp contrast. "It's done?"

The girl smiles. "Yes."

Deucalion nods, blind eyes unseeing. "Well done, Kali."

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumbllllllrrrrrrrr](http://hatteress.tumblr.com)


End file.
